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A golden mind stoops not to shows of dross.

William Shakespeare

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William Shakespeare
Age: 51 †
Born: 1564
Born: April 26
Died: 1616
Died: April 23
Actor
Dramaturge
Playwright
Poet
Stage Actor
Writer
Stratford-upon-Avon
Warwickshire
Shakespeare
The Bard
The Bard of Avon
William Shakspere
Swan of Avon
Bard of Avon
Shakespere
Shakespear
Shakspeare
Shackspeare
William Shake‐ſpeare
Stoops
Golden
Shows
Mind
Caskets
Dross

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The iron tongue of Midnight hath told twelve lovers, to bed 'tis almost fairy time. I fear we shall outstep the coming morn as much as we this night over-watch'd.
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A man cannot make him laugh but that's no marvel he drinks no wine.... If I had a thousand sons, the first human principle I would teach them should be, to forswear thin potations and to addict themselves to sack.
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I am a great eater of beef, and I believe that does harm to my wit.
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Men's faults do seldom to themselves appear.
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An honest tale speeds best being plainly told.
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The apparel oft proclaims the man.
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My glass shall not persuade me I am old, So long as youth and thou are of one date But when in thee time's furrows I behold, Then look I death my days should expiate.
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He is dead and gone, lady, He is dead and gone At his head a grass-green turf, At his heels a stone.
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Enough no more Tis not so sweet now as it was before.
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Hung be the heavens with black! Yield, day, to night!
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Who would be so mocked with glory, or to live But in a dream of friendship, To have his pomp and all what state compounds But only painted, like his varnished friends?
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Look on beauty, and you shall see 'tis purchased by the weight which therein works a miracle in Nature, making them lightest that wear most of it: so are those crisped snaky golden locks which make such wanton gambols with the wind upon supposed fairness, often known to be the dowry of a second head, the skull that bred them in the sepulchre.
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We will all laugh at gilded butterflies.
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What, gone without a word? Ay, so true love should do it cannot speak, For truth hath better deeds than words to grace it.
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This is his uncle's teaching, this Worcester, Malevolent to you In all aspects, Which makes him prune himself and bristle up The crest of youth against your dignity.
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Hold, or cut bowstrings.
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Virtue is chok'd with foul ambition
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A fusty nut with no kernel.
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With these shreds They vented their complainings, which being answered And a petition granted them, a strange one, To break the heart of generosity, And make bold power look pale, they threw their caps As they would hang them on the horns o' th' moon, Shouting their emulation.
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Ay, but to die and go we know not where To lie in cold obstrution and to rot This sensible warm motion to become A kneaded clod and the delighted spirit To bathe in fiery floods or to reside In thrilling regions of thick-ribbed ice To be imprison'd in the viewless winds, And blown with restless violence round about The pendant world.
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